Paintings of Peter Petrelli's Sex Life
by PopePrincess
Summary: Isaac has the unfortunate gift of painting Peter... A LOT. So imagine his suprise when he paints himself in a compromising position with Peter...naked. SLASH & kink of the Issac/Peter, Nathan/Peter, Sylar/Peter variety within. EXPLICIT, adults only.
1. Chapter 1

Paintings of Peter Petrelli's Sex Life

...

AU Season 1.

Pairings: Isaac/Peter, Nathan/Peter (Wincest led me to Petrellicest :D), Sylar/Peter

Rating: NC-17

Spoliers: So much AU-ness. I've only see the first season, and some stuff is slightly canon while other stuff is in place because the PWP needs it to be. So yeah, slight spoilers for season 1 across the board, but all pretty general and what takes place in no way reflects the linearity of season 1 canon.

Warnings: Uhh... Slashy stuff happens. Plot is thin enough to be plausible (maybe) and present but mainly just to justify the smex, of which explicitness is plenty. We got good old Petrelli incest, liberal doses of dub-con, an all male orgy. Umm... some other stuff that I'm not sure how to warn for. Invisibility being used in an atypical way... can I warn for ceiling sex? And then some more slash. Ooh, ooh, and serious power play. The whole BDSM-esque thing is my typical writing style so I sort of forgot for a minute that it was warn-able. Yeah. Yay for subby!Peter!

Summary: I don't know. I just... I just don't know. I was writing a cute little Isaac slash Peter piece, and then the massive kink plot bunny that spawns numerous other plot bunnies of kink sent its armies after me. This is what happens when I decide to unfilter what my brain is thinking and what actually goes down on the page. So Petrellicest showed up (because YUM,) and I just really like the idea of Sylar and Peter understanding each other in a way no-one else can (which involves sex somehow?). And then dub-con and orgies worked itself into it. Because that is the natural progression of things when you are a slash writer.

Unbetaed.

XXX

Isaac sort of blacked out when he had a vision of the future. So when he came back to himself he'd find paintings, maybe one large one, maybe several smaller, but all telling him something. They usually revolved around several people; the cheerleader, the unnaturally cheerful Japanese man, and the man, Peter Petrelli, who'd stolen his girlfriend. Usually the meanings were hard to decipher, not obvious unless interpreted alongside other paintings.

Then there were the ones that needed no explanation, no further insight. The meaning just laid bare.

Like the one with he and Peter having sex. That was highly disturbing. Highly, highly disturbing.

OR MAYBE... it was one of those paintings that didn't look like what they looked like. Like the one where Hiro, was that his name?, was standing in front of a dinosaur. But *actually* it was just a big stuffed toy in a museum.

So maybe what really happens is that he and Peter are... talking, naked (for some unknown reason but that will be very obvious and platonic in the future), and then... one of them slips, from the position they're in, it looks like it would be him, thus crashing into Peter and causing them to both fall... onto his bed. And then he just happens to land between Peter's widely spread legs, leaning forward to regain his balance, so that coincidentally their faces almost touch, whilst simultaneously Peter brings his legs up to hug Isaac's waist for balance... while they're both naked.

YES. *That's* what happens.

Oh, Jesus Christ, he's going to have sex with Peter Petrelli.

Isaac brought his fist up to his mouth and bit it, silently freaking the fuck out.

Or maybe it was just people who looked like them. Oh, the taste of delicious desperate hope.

His eyes finally moved to the next painting, sitting on the floor where he must have moved it. It was Peter again. Again naked. Thankfully there was a shadow... a human male-shaped shadow sprawled over him so Isaac wasn't left staring at Peter's junk.

But who was the shadow? Isaac prayed it wasn't him.

These two people were sprawled over the floor. The floor looked strange, just a wash of white, no detail. And the corner of the room that was visible looked strange, like the top of a column built into the wall or something. Peter's neck was arched, with an expression that could only be called an orgasm face. He was pinned in place by the other unidentifiable male, the man's arms and legs sprawling out as if he'd just... (orgasmed, Isaac's mind whispered) before collapsing on top of Peter.

Ugh. Peter sex. Was there anything more disgusting? Simone didn't seem to find him so repulsive. Isaac'd clearly been blinded by love, because Simone was totally stupid.

Isaac tilted his head as he studied Peter's orgasm face in horrified fascination. Was he really going to...?

"Hey!" someone called from the front door. *Peter.*

"...!" Isaac spasmed, panic adrenalin surging through him. He quickly picked up the two paintings and threw them against the wall, hiding them.

"What's- what're you doing?" Peter asked as he walked down the stairs.

"Nothing!" said Isaac, face flushed, fingers shaking with the nervous adrenalin.

Peter came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, body stiff. "Are you hiding something?"

"*No*!"

Peter laughed. "That was the most unconvincing thing I've ever heard," he said. "Are those more paintings of the future?"

"Ah... no." Isaac rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel some tension. He looked over at the other man from behind his fringe and tried to picture what he'd be like to have sex with. Would he look good naked? Isaac was an artist, a free soul; he'd had sex with guys before. But honestly, he preferred women. Did he think Peter was attractive? Maybe, a little, but in a purely objective way. Like, he could see why Simone would be interested but he wasn't interested himself. He thought the Mona Lisa was attractive and he didn't want to have sex with *that*. "They're just painting-paintings. For a show I got coming up."

Peter nodded, biting his bottom lip suspiciously and drawing his eyebrows together. "So then I can see them?"

"No!"

Peter quirked an eyebrow. It was an adorable eyebrow, Isaac could admit, but he still didn't want to have sex with the man. Yes, so now that he was looking he could see maybe the dark, deep eyes were a little dreamy. And the way he wore his clothes gave the unintentional impression that they needed to be ripped off of him asap. The fringe was stupid, though. Isaac meant, how old was this guy anyway? Was he *trying* to look like a nine year old with his stupid floppy hair all in his face?

If Isaac was going to kiss him, which he*wasn't*, he'd definitely bring one hand up to cup Peter's face and brush the hair back from his face.

"If you're hiding something..." said Peter, taking what looked like he hoped would be an intimidating step forward.

"No! I'm not-" Isaac sighed. "They're nothing. I swear."

"Then let me see!"

"No! They're... they're not done yet."

"Well that's fine," said Peter. "I'm hardly an art critic." And then Isaac's heart went into overdrive as Peter started walking towards them.

"Don't!" Isaac stepped into his path, arms out as if to stop him. Then he remembered the paintings and brought his arms and hands back in, like a turtle. Physical contact = *bad*.

"Why not?" asked Peter. "What possible reason could you have-" Then his eyes darkened. Not in a 'bedroom' way, in a more 'suspicious and furious' kind of way. "Is it of you and Simone?" he demanded.

"No," laughed Isaac, running a hand through his hair, probably getting paint through it. "I wish."

"Then what?" asked Peter, growing annoyed. He started towards the paintings and Isaac grabbed at him. The lesser of two evils. "Let go!" He shoved back at Isaac who refused to let go of his upper arms. The force sent them reeling sideways, falling to the floor.

"Do not look!" said Isaac, half-request, half-order.

"Just show me!" shouted Peter. "What are you hiding?" He shoved Isaac away and got to his knees. Isaac tackled him again. By this point it probably would have been more rational to just let him look at the paintings and laugh it off and talk about changing the future. But he was operating on a level of irrational fear, as if anyone else saw it, the painting would be validated.

They went down with a crash. They wrestled, struggling to get on top so each could get to the paintings first. Somehow, and Isaac didn't want to look into it too closely, Peter ended up straddling his waist, holding him down, mouth a sneer of aggression. He looked over to where the paintings were. Isaac grabbed at the moment of temporary distraction and managed to flip them over, landing heavily on top of the other man. Face to face, breathing heavily, Peter's legs still around his hips from straddling him, they were a few thin layers of cloth away from fulfilling the prophecy.

Isaac's eyes widened, Peter's too, and they stared at each other for one horrible, horrible moment of realised intimacy, completely frozen, before Isaac managed to regain some semblance of coherency and push himself away.

Peter got up to his feet after a minute, shaking slightly. He walked determinedly towards the paintings.

"Don't..." Isaac said. Peter picked them up and looked them over undeterred. The first one was the one with the shadow. Peter made a little pout of confusion, eyebrows drawn into a V, and then slid it behind the second. He looked at it blankly for a moment, then tilted his head as if a new perspective would make more of sense of it.

"Is that me?" he asked. "And is that-" Isaac could see the moment realisation dawned. His eyes widened, face paled and his jaw dropped. His eyes flicked up to meet Isaac's. Isaac met his gaze stubbornly. Peter had brought this on himself. He could suffer the full extent of 'WTF' Isaac had had to go through as well. "Umm... why?"

"Why what?" snapped Isaac.

"Why'd you paint... this?" Peter threw them down onto the floor between them in disgust.

"I didn't!"

"You said it wasn't of the future!" They met each other's eyes and held, a battle of wills to see who'd look away first. "You said- You said-! *Not* the future!"

Isaac laughed. "I lied. Looks like we're going to..." he paled and looked away.

"We're not going to have sex! Certainly not on the ceiling."

"Huh?"

"The painting... with the, you, in darkness. We're on the ceiling."

"What! That, shadow, is not me," huffed Isaac.

"Who else could it be?"

"WE are not having sex more than once," said Isaac matter-of-factly.

"No," said Peter. "If I'm going to start *randomly* having sex with guys, I'd rather it just be the one."

"So what, you want to have sex with me more than once?"

"I don't want to have sex with you, *at all*!"

"Too bad princess," snarked Isaac, snatching up the painting of them. He held it outward, facing Peter. "'Cause it looks like I'm going to have your pretty little ass."

Peter made a noise of infuriated disgust and turned on his heel, storming out.

And because Isaac was a prick, he called after the other man as he walked out the door, "I'll buy the lube!"

XXX

"Peter!" said Nathan. "How was your day?"

"Ugh!" Peter violently pulled off his jumper and threw it on the armchair in Nathan's house.

"You okay? Bad day?"

Peter just laughed, throwing himself down onto the couch and throwing an arm over his eyes. "That's one way to describe it."

"What happened?" asked Nathan, sounding genuinely concerned if distracted as he sorted mail. It's one of the reasons Nathan was such a gifted politician; his ability to sound *genuine* when Peter knew for a fact he didn't give a crap.

Peter sighed, letting his arm flop down to beside him. "Just ordinary, bad day stuff." He let his mind and eyes wonder to distract himself. "You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you," he muttered to himself. "Or maybe you would... or maybe not. Is being spontaneously gay more or less believable then being able to fly?"

His eyes alit on the corner of the room. All around the top of the room was a cornice, connecting wall to ceiling like a reverse skirting board. In the corners there was a decorative feature, almost like the top of a marble column.

... the same from the painting.

Peter sat upright.

That's what had been bothering him! If he could fly, then he'd have had to be holding the other person up which didn't make any sense because it was almost as if he'd been the one who'd been being held up to the ceiling.

So... everything indicated he was going to have sex with someone possessing his brother's abilities, in his brother's house.

He looked over his shoulder at Nathan who looked up from the mail in his hand and smiled pleasantly at him.

Oh God no.

"I just remembered something," said Peter, standing up, awkward in his urgency. "I gotta go."

"Okay, well... maybe you should come over sometime for dinner. You, me, Ma, the kids. It'll be fun."

"Yes, yeah. Yes. Sounds good." Peter nodded and started walking towards the entry hall, not looking back.

"Hey, wait," said Nathan as he caught up. "You forgot this." He held out Peter's sweater.

"Oh, thanks." Peter took it and ran his thumbs over the material, watching it rather than Nathan.

"Peter," said Nathan, taking a step closer. He reached up and smoothed a hand over Peter's hair, lingering afterward. "If something's wrong, you know you can tell me."

"Yeah."

"Okay then." He took a step back and Peter could breathe again. "Stay out of trouble. I mean it. I'll see you again soon."

"Yeah, bye." Peter opened the door and started walking. He didn't stop for quite a while.

XXX

XXX

Much more to follow. Future Isaac/Peter, Nathan/Peter and a whole lot of Sylar/Peter coming up soon.

I have a Law essay due Monday. Kill me now. Mainly because in total I have three major assignments due in the next 2 week and I'm like :/ mixed with 0.0 and then they don't have an emoticon that properly conveys my utter terror.

Send me a comment and brighten my day. Love to my readers.


	2. Chapter 2 1 of 2

CHAPTER 2 (1st half)

Rating: NC-17. Here is where the smex happens... (starts)

Summary: Sylar and Peter go to look for an old friend of Sylar's who is hiding due to an unfortunate power. They absorb it and, unable to control it, stuff happens.

Warning: Whoa. The Sylar in my mind is a sadistic little bastard... Hope you enjoy, but if the darker stuff isn't to your taste then maybe you should stay away. REMEMBER: You are choosing to read this. If you don't like something, then stop reading.

Main Pairing of the Chapter: Sylar/Peter

Unbetaed.

XXX

...

"You're Sylar?" asked Peter from where he was pinned to the wall in his own apartment.

"Yes. You must be Peter."

"Yes. How do you know about me?"

"I could ask the same of you," replied Sylar. "I must say, it's... exhilarating to finally meet you. You're the same as me. It's, wow." He spread his fingers, palms wide to accompany the symbolic breadth of the enormity before him.

"What do you want?" asked Peter.

"I want to find somebody," said Sylar. "An old friend of mine. I want your help."

"Why?"

Sylar shrugged. "Whimsy. The more I find out about you, the more I'll find out about myself." He stepped closer so that their chests touched. "Plus, you're kind of cute."

"What is with all of the sudden gayness?" asked an exasperated Peter to the ceiling.

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to accompany me or not?"

"No!" said Peter, outraged and disbelieving at the same time.

"Come with me," said Sylar, bringing their faces closer together as their bodies couldn't be any more so. "Or I'll kill your niece, and make your brother watch, and then kill your brother and make her watch. And then kill her again." His black eyes glinted inhumanely.

"I... I guess I could go with you."

"Good boy," purred Sylar. Peter suddenly found himself dropping the few centimetres to the carpet, tilting forward, unbalanced. Sylar's arms came up to bracket him against the wall. "Careful, cutie. Wouldn't want you getting hurt."

"Let go!" growled Peter, shoving Sylar away. Sylar staggered a few steps back but his predatory smile remained fixed to his face. "Where are we going?" Peter asked, shrugging around in his jacket to get more comfortable and get rid of the feeling of Sylar's body against his.

"To find a friend of mine."

"Why?"

"Why? Because she's my friend. No-one has seen or heard from her in several months, so now I'm going looking."

"I don't see why I have to come along."

"Mmm," purred Sylar. "Would you believe me if I said I thought we could be friends?"

"No."

Sylar chuckled. "I may need back-up. There has to be a good reason she's been out of contact."

"You mean like maybe some crazy bastard's running around cutting off the top of people's heads? Oh, no, wait, because you're *here*."

"Shut up," snarled Sylar. His mood was typically blank, the flashes of mood swings like bright slashes of colour across a white canvas. "You don't understand. No-one does. Now, come on. Before I decide to take a visit to your brother's house and see what the inside of *his* head looks like."

Peter's jaw firmed and his lips tightened unhappily. *Nathan*. "Fine. Let's go."

...

"Marie?" called Sylar.

They were at a small cabin, some distance out from NYC. "I didn't even know New York had a forest," said Peter, looking around. He took a hesitant step back. His body felt weird after being held firmly in place by Sylar's telekinesis on the whole drive over. He'd kept hold of his sanity by pretending he didn't notice the way the force field flattened over his lower body was making slow, gentle circles over his crotch and inner thighs. At least Sylar hadn't attempted to grope him, although Peter had been worried when he'd sat down and his neck had been forced back against the headrest, arms at his sides, thighs spread. Not obscenely wide, but still wide enough to be noticeable. If Sylar had made a move, he'd have had to retaliate. And then the car they were in probably would have careened into oncoming traffic and possibly injured someone, so Peter was glad he hadn't had to resort to that.

Now he was worried about how he'd been kept from escaping, coerced into getting him to the middle of nowhere.

"Are you going to kill me?" asked Peter, breath deepening as his body readied itself for fight or flight. "Is that why you brought me here? Are you going to pin me to a tree and keep cutting at my head until you can get to my brain?"

"Please, Peter," said Sylar. "I'm insulted. A little but of trust. We really are here to locate my friend Marie."

"Well, what's she doing out here?"

"About six months ago she moved house, came out here. Isolated herself from everyone. We'd been keeping in touch with letters, but now even those have stopped."

"Aw," said Peter mockingly. "I still don't understand why *I'm* here."

"Because *I* want you to be," said Sylar. A snarl, splash of red. "Now be quiet, pretty, or I'll have to make you." Peter clicked his teeth together, eyes glaring. Sylar turned back to the cabin. "Marie!"

Peter and Sylar walked up to the cabin, wary of potential danger.

"Why'd she move?" Peter asked in a low voice as they drew nearer.

"I don't know. It's a logical conclusion that she inherited a power that made it uncomfortable for her to live amongst other humans."

"Hmm. Than do we really want to be out here? What's wrong with a phone call?"

"She doesn't have a phone."

"Why not?"

"You ask too many questions." Sylar listened at the door and then opened it.

"You can't just-" Peter shut up at Sylar's glare.

"Marie?" called Sylar, walking inside. "It's me."

Peter followed him, stopping short in the middle of the rug on the wooden floor of the kitchen-cum-dining-cum-lounge area. Something had just happened. He'd felt... weird. "Hey, do you know what Marie's power is?" asked Peter, a Very Bad Feeling setting in.

"No. I-" Sylar stopped and shuddered. Seconds later Peter did the same, feeling a curling wave of heat spreading through his body, leaving his cheeks flushed, extremities tingling. He felt... warm. Good. He wanted to feel better. He looked up and met Sylar's eyes, seeing the same dark hunger staring back at him.

They both strode forward, chests smacking together as hands gripped and pulled closer, mouths open. It wasn't a kiss or embrace so much as once again a battle but of bodies rather than wills. Kissing was a demonstration of power, trying to overwhelm the other with their tongue.

Nothing about the way they came together was gentle. They both stilled, though, when they heard the cupboard door open and footsteps across the floor. They turned towards the noise, heat swamping them again.

"Marie," whispered Sylar. She squeaked fearfully and ran for the back door, glass with wooden shutters over it, unlocked. She managed to wrench it open and was out and running into the thickest part of the forest in seconds.

Peter and Sylar, nonsensical, were out and running after her, close on her heels. They caught up to her, brought her tackling to the ground. She screamed hysterically, scratching at them. With a huge amount of effort she managed to shove them backwards, hands glowing pink-purple. The glow shot from her hands, towards and disappearing as if absorbed into their foreheads. They lay back, temporarily stunned and Maire stood up and ran into the wilderness.

Sylar came back to himself, gasping. He was on *fire*. Sweat was pouring from him, his clothes were sticking to him. He had too much energy inside of him; it felt like his insides were going to explode from the fullness.

Someone was beside him. He reached out and pulled them closer, moving on instinct. If he could diffuse some of the energy roaring through him, shift it, share it, maybe he'd feel okay. His mouth pressed open over the other's, finding it with his eyes closed. Hands over clothes, sliding beneath to skin felt even hotter than his own.

It was nice, better than nice. Kissing had never felt like this before. He tumbled onto them, falling comfortably between the bracket of someone's legs but the angle was wrong. Lips still moved against his, tongues sliding together but he had to lean forward, stretch his neck. He moved further forward, trying to bring their faces closer together and inadvertently brushing their groins together.

Oh, that was even nicer than the kissing. Sylar did it again. Then again, getting more foce behind the movements of his hips, changing from leaning on his knees to his toes to get more momentum, bracing on his arms on either side of the other man's head. Hands were sliding under his jumper, ticklish, to down to cup his butt, grip, hard, and urge him harder against the body beneath him.

He lasted only a few minutes before spasming, a white cleansing heat, a dry burn like internal sunburn, before he collapsed fully on top of the body beneath him.

Peter grunted as dead weight dropped on top of him. He gasped, eyes finally opening, seeing leaves, braches, bright blue sky. Memory slowly flitted back to him in bits and pieces.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Don't know," came the voice from right beside his ear. Sylar. Yeah. That made sense.

"You're friend got away."

"Good."

"Yeah. Good." He shoved Sylar to the side of him and just continued to lay there. It was easier to get his breath back when his lungs weren't being crushed. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure exactly," said Sylar, voice deeper when sleepy. A sudden intense wave of heat shot through him and he curled in on himself. "But I think we should get back before..."

"Before?"

Sylar stumbled to his feet, looking over Peter where he was lying like a written invitation.

"Nothing," said Sylar, looking back to the direction he was reasonably sure the cabin was in. "Let's go." He heard Peter start to get to his feet before taking off.

After a few minutes of walking, the cabin just barely in sight, "Hey wait up," called Peter from behind him. The sound of his voice sent another wave of heat through him, gathering in his stomach. It was near painful, calling for action to be taken. Sylar turned with a growl, intending to tackle Peter and repeat what had just happened when Peter threw himself forwards first, catching Sylar in the turn and taking them both crashing a few steps back against a tree trunk.

Sylar felt bark dug in and snarled in discomfort, shoving Peter face front against the tree. Peter made a little yewl of pain but didn't resist when Sylar manhandled him, flipping him and pressing his back against the tree.

When Peter started struggling out of his jacket and top Sylar helped him, tearing him out. Peter grimaced in pain when Sylar pulled too roughly.

"Quiet, you'll heal," said Sylar. He smiled. He could do anything, be as rough as he wanted, and Peter would heal. Something unfurled inside of him, dark and twisting, reaching out towards Peter. How rough could he be, how much could he do if he didn't have to worry about his lover being *alive* at the end of it? He could fuck him in the bathtub, hold him underwater while Peter struggled, churning the water around them. He could bend him into any position, do every depraved thing he'd never thought of because it had never been a possibility before.

"Why are you smiling like that?" asked Peter once his top layers had dropped to the floor.

"Nothing," smirked Sylar, leaning in again. He grabbed the top of Peter's pants and pulled them down without undoing them.

"Ow!"

"Shh," said Sylar. The material gave easily enough under his strength, sliding over slim hips and thighs. He thought about how he wanted this and pulled them all the way down, kneeling to take off Peter's shoes and helping him step out of his pants and briefs.

When Peter made another noise of pain at the rough treatment, Sylar leant forward and bit him on the thigh which just made him cry out all over again. This was fun.

Sylar stood up again and Peter helped him undo his own pants, sliding the material far enough down to free his erection. Peter made a small hungry noise, probably not even aware of what he'd done. Sylar burrowed in again, biting at Peter's Adam's apple as if he could actually devour the noise itself.

"Come here," Sylar said, gripping Peter at the curve where buttock met thigh, digging his fingers as in as hard as he could.

"How?" asked Peter, hands coming to rest on Sylar's shoulders.

"Jump," he said and the next second they moved as if dancing, Peter jumping, legs coming to wrap around Sylar and Sylar moving forwards, sandwiching the other man between himself and the unyielding bark of the tree.

"Wait," said Peter desperately when Sylar's cock nudged his hole. "I've never-"

"Hush," ordered Sylar. His eyes glinted. "You'll heal."

Peter cried out, properly, when Sylar entered him. Sylar groaned, licking over Peter's mouth and then his tears when he started crying when Sylar jerked his whole body, forcing himself a few inches deeper inside of Peter.

"You'll be okay," muttered Sylar. "You'll be okay." He waited a second, watching Peter struggle to accept him into his body. Quietly, speaking slowly like they were words he'd never spoken before, strange in his mouth, he asked, "Do you want me to stop?"

Peter grit his teeth. "No, just..." he sighed, and Sylar's eyes rolled back into his head as Peter relaxed and slid down until he was fully penetrated. "Okay, go."

"You sure?" asked Sylar breathlessly, arms shaking not from strain but feeling.

"Go," urged Peter, rolling his hips as if trying to take Sylar deeper.

Sylar started up fucking, listening to the way Peter yelled and gave little sobbing gasps, erection leaking against his stomach even as pain swept through him as he had brutal sex for the first time. Sylar nuzzled into him, smiling inanely. "Pain slut," he mouth against Peter's collarbone before sinking his teeth in.

...

They staggered back into the cabin a few minutes later, Sylar walking a few steps behind so he could watch in utter fascination as Peter healed. His back had been torn up as he was ravaged against the tree, unable to heal as Sylar kept grinding him over and over the rough bark.

He was excited, not physically but emotionally. By the time they reached the back door of the cabin, Peter was completely healed. Rather than disappointment, he was thrilled because it meant he would get to mark him up again and again. He thought of whipping him, lines of blood opening up over his back, buttocks, thighs, blood pouring down him, only to heal, to be ripped open again and again in neat lines, more and more blood until he could cut Peter down from where he'd tied him and fuck him in a puddle of blood, bathe in it.

"This need to stop," said Peter. "We need to control it."

Sylar pulled him in, firm grip in his hair, angling his head to slant his mouth over Peter's. "We will," Sylar promised once they had broken apart, "We will. Later," he promised. "Later."

He backed Peter up to the double bed that sat in one corner, sheeting rumpled. They crawled onto the mattress and came back together. Peter tried for dominance this time, shoving back when Sylar tried to push him onto his back and slide between his thighs. He managed to crawl on top before Sylar pulled him down on top of him, making Peter lose his purchase and thereby being able to roll them over. Peter understood his idea and kept rolling them. Sylar pushed his face into the curve of Peter' neck and laughed as they continued to roll, falling off the side with a thud.

Peter laughed as well despite himself when they fell off the edge, landing with a thud on the floor, Peter on top. They scrabbled for purchase, more playful than fighting now. Sylar bit him on the neck, nibbling along his clavicle. Peter laughed, pushing him away and hefting himself back onto the bed by his elbows while facing outward. Sylar followed, sliding up Peter's body and moving with him as they lay across the mattress once again.

With Peter beneath him. Where he belonged.

Sylar was intense normally. When he was lying full atop you, eyes boaring down into your soul, face captured between his two, firm hands to maintain eye contact, he was like the embodiment of intensity.

...

XXX

Thank you for reading. Two major assignments due over the next four days. Prayers of support are appreciated, or you could just review my fic and brighten my day. Much love. Second half up soon (few weeks at the most, hopefully).


	3. Chapter 2 2 of 2

Heroes Ch 2.2

Same warnings and rating and pairing apply as first half.

Chapter 2 (2nd half)

XXX

XXX

Sylar woke up first, sitting straight up as if catapulted, hair stuck up in different directions. "What the fuck was that?" he asked the room as he took in their surroundings. Beside him Peter groaned, awareness trying to invade his sense.

"Hmm?" asked Peter, tone letting him know he didn't really care as he tried to snuggle deeper into the warmth.

"Thirsty," said Sylar, struggling out of bed and staggering to the fridge. "Hungry."

"Me too," said Peter from the bed. "Bring me something."

Sylar turned on the tap at the sink, cupping his hands below the water and bringing it to his mouth. He drank deeply, too thirsty to bother with finding a cup as he repeated the gesture again and again. He was elbowed out of the way by Peter who took his place, mimicking his way of drinking from it.

Sylar gasped, taking in air after a minute of solid drinking, and went to look in the cupboards.

"There any food?" asked Peter between gulps. "Your friend Marie leave anything?"

"Bread," said Peter, flinging it onto the scarred wooden table behind him. "Tins. Spaghetti, baked beans, fruit. Jam, peanut butter." He threw it all haphazard over the table, some falling to the floor. He moved to the fridge, feeling a strange itchiness under the uppermost layer of his skin. He growled as he looked over the sparsity of the fridge. "Milk." He picked it up and took off the lid. "*Off* milk. There's not..." he looked over his shoulder at Peter who was shovelling pieces of bread into his mouth. Actually, that didn't look like too bad an idea.

He grabbed the plastic, taking out a piece for himself. Then drinking more water, soothing and delicious. He watched Peter to take his place at the faucet, leaning forward to stick his face under it, swallowing the water that pooled in his mouth. Sylar leant forward, watching the sweat run down his back, collecting at the dip in his spine, the dimples at the base.

He couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to from leaning forward and licking up the sweat. He gripped Peter by the hips, dragging him backwards, Peter making a yewling noise as he was pulled away and awkwardly pushing off the tap as Sylar dragged him to the bed.

"If you don't want to be fucked on the floor, rough wood scraping your hands and knees raw, then get on the bed. Now," said Sylar, urgent, almost wanting to watch the way Peter's blood spilt out over the dark wood, liquid pooling in the cracks and dips of the uneven floor. Peter whimpered, eyes puppy dog wide and begging, hair falling over his face as if attempting to protect his innocence. What was left of it.

...

Peter was on all fours. "You like it, huh? You like being fucked like an animal?" purred Sylar. "I bet you do, dirty boy."

He grasped Peter, large hands curling over his hips, thumbs over his buttocks. He dug his fingers in, pulling Peter's cheeks apart, eyes intent on the place where his cock was driving into Peter's body, joining them.

Peter jerked when Sylar gasped, not in pleasure but shock as his thrusts slowed down. "What?" asked Peter, his voice wrecked from the constant sex and screaming orgasms.

"I'so *pink*," whispered Sylar.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're insides. They're so... delicate, soft and silky, and such a pretty shade of pink."

"Huh? What?" Peter turned his head around and looked over his shoulder. Sylar wasn't there, yet he could feel the man slowly thrusting in and out of him, his body wide to accept him. "Where-?" Then it hit him. "No!" Peter bucked wildly, understanding what was going on. Sylar was invisible. Embarrassment shot through him, his body flushing with the heat of shame. "Don't!"

He heard Sylar moan as Peter continued to wriggle under him, muscles clenching as all of his body tried to escape.

"Shh, Peter," said Sylar, trying to soothe. Peter felt the other man re-adjust his grip, stronger and then forcibly pull his cheeks apart again. He could feel the stretch of skin as Sylar angled him to get the optimum view.

"Stop!" cried Peter. He felt so exposed, vulnerable, the stupid pheromones running through his veins taking it as fuel to drive his lust higher. The feeling of being wide open for Sylar was just turning him on more, making him want more. He wanted to be used and mistreated and forced to accept whatever Sylar wanted of him. His heart rate increased, sweat dripping off of him. His orgasm twitched warningly in the base of his gut.

"Shh," repeated Sylar, his thrusts stopping completely and halting the progress of Peter's orgasm. He withdrew slowly, Peter's mouth helplessly forming an 'o' as every vein and curve of Sylar's cock rubbed against him where he was most sensitive.

"What are you doing?" whined Peter as Sylar withdrew completely. He felt his body twitch around empty air, slowly closing. Then Sylar's cock brushed over his opening, thrusting him in again and anchoring him open for Sylar's gaze. Peter clawed at the mattress, keening low in his throat as Sylar repeated the process of opening him up, withdrawing and watching him slowly wink close before roughly and suddenly spearing him wide open again. "Stop! Just stop!"

"Stop?"

"Just fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" cried Peter. Sylar gasped at the unfiltered neediness of the man before him, the need for *him*, something he'd never felt before- making him feel special, worthy, important. He lost the grip of his invisibility, his skin reforming before him. He could see the base of his cock where a few inches of himself remained open to the air, flushed a deep red, engorged, possibly harder than he'd ever been before in his life.

"Okay," gusted Sylar, hunkering down so that their backs were glued together, arms coming up beneath Peter's chest to hook his arms around Peter's shoulders. Peter moaned encouragingly as the position fucked Sylar deeper into him, a good pain of *too much too deep*. "Ready?"

Peter moaned in answer and Sylar started thrusting again, fast and hard. Their hips came together in a loud smack of flesh against flesh. Oh it was good. So so sosososososo good. The jolts of pleasure just kept coming, one after another, too fast to allow anytime to wallow or recover in between, just hit after hit of *good, yes, good, yes, yes, more* to Peter's senses.

The most embarrassing noises started pouring from his throat as sensation overtook him. He sounded like a small whimpering animal while Sylar moaned, loudly and deeply behind him, right in his ear. His breath gusted damply over Peter's neck, making it tingle where the warm wet made contact. Peter bit his lip as he started groaning, thighs shaking as his orgasm began to coil like a thick, heavy snake in his gut, ready to strike. Both hands remained firmly planted on the mattress in front of him, supporting both of their weight.

Sylar curled tighter around Peter, Sylar's hips, cock and hands on his shoulders forcing him to curl in tighter into himself, forehead almost resting on the mattress.

"Oh, yes," said Peter, fringe blurring his vision as it stuck to his face.

"Say my name," growled Sylar into Peter's ear, stopping the churning of his hips. "Say it, or I don't let you come. Say it."

"Sylar," screamed Peter, letting his face rest against the sheet before him, freeing his hands to reach back, grasp the back of Sylar's thighs and try to bring him further forward, to try to get him to resume his thrusting.

"That's not my name," growled Sylar His hips started up again despite his wished, hips gathering speed like the pistons of an old-time train pulling out of a station. "Gabriel. Call me Gabriel."

"Gabriel," panted Peter into the sheets. "Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel." He let his fingernails dig in to the soft, lighty furred skin of Sylar's thighs. "More, more, more."

"Yes," gasped Sylar. His hands came out from beneath Peter's body, putting them flat on the mattress, still bracketing Peter in beneath him. He let himself go, being as savage as he wanted to be. He let the knowledge that Peter could heal from any damage Sylar caused him free him of guilt or worry, and just let himself go.

Peter cried out as Sylar started biting at the back of his neck, tongue thick and rasping in its dryness, licking over every inch of him he could reach, stubble tickling him; neck, ears, shoulders, lapping at blood that remained while actual the actual tears caused by sharp canines repaired themselves. It felt like Sylar was trying to force his cock through Peter's body, trying to skewer him to come out of his mouth. His orgasm was rebuilding itself, washing through him in lovely bursts of white light, leaving him filled with pleasure. No room for anything else but bliss, pure pulses of pleasure, electrifying every inch of him.

He came without regard to what Sylar was experiencing behind him, his orgasm numbing him to everything. He spasmed like he'd been properly electrocuted for what felt like an eternity before he collapsed, utterly spent, hips still in the air, suspended by where Sylar's cock was inside of him. He was aware of his eyelashes fluttering over his vision as his eyelids suck close and then he was in absolute darkness of unconscious freedom.

Sylar finished himself, a few seconds after Peter went limp. He groaned deeply, curling over Peter's back again. He hugged his arms around Peter's waist and let gravity pull them to the side, sleep elapsing over him as he instinctively snuggled up to the other empath.

...

Peter had a tension headache from spending too much time in bed, stomach queasy with hunger, lips and throat dry. He untangled himself from Sylar and staggered desperately to the kitchen. He felt like he was a million years old. He turned on the tap, furiously cupping water into his mouth. After a few minutes of that, when his stomach was protesting, he moved to the fridge. His limbs felt wobbly, unsteady, but he ignored them, opening the fridge door and pulling out the last half of the bread. He tore it open and shoved pieces into his mouth, breathing noisily through his nose.

"Where are you?" called Sylar.

"K'ch'n," called back Peter, shoving another piece between his teeth. Oh gosh it was good. Flavour that wasn't body salt. Sylar stumbled over to join him, collapsing onto the sink and drinking from the tap in the same manner Peter had. "Have," said Peter, thrusting the bag of bread forward. Sylar grunted thanks, diving in.

They were behaving like animals, Peter thought. Fucking like animals, his libido supplied helpfully. "You feel like spaghetti later?" asked Peter, dryly swallowing what was left of his mouthful of bread, slinking up against Sylar and rubbing against him.

"Hm, maybe. But right now I feel like you." Sylar threw the bread in the general direction of the table, missing by a mile. He caged Peter in between his arms, hands on the bench. "You taste better." Peter groaned and kissed him. Sylar kissed back, it was sloppy and wild, before suddenly turning, bringing Peter with him and using the momentum to fling him onto the table.

Peter laid back, utter supplication, eyes shut in anticipation. Sylar crawled up onto the table above him and quickly took him, their bodies immediately falling into the same rhythm they'd been in for the last day, the rhythm as familiar to them by now as breathing.

"If we don't break this and get out of here, we could die," Sylar panted into Peter's ear as he fucked him.

"Mmm," groaned Peter appreciatively. "Fuck me to death." Sylar groaned, head falling to rest at Peter's shoulder. "Never need anything again but you."

Sylar looked at him, eyes meeting and breath hitching as something passed between them in their look. "Okay." He came, Peter mewling, clutching at Sylar's ribs with desperate fingernails, begging with his eyes and jerk of hips to come as well.

Sylar laughed, biting at Peter's lips. Peter wriggled, just for the friction, biting back puppy-like.

"Gonna fuck you again," Sylar whispered, a dark promise.

"Mmm," moaned Peter. "Now?" Sylar smiled and wedged himself between Peter's thighs.

"I've never cum so much before in my life," Sylar whispered down as he slid inside of Peter.

"Me neither," groaned Peter, slowly shaking his head from side to side. "Not normal."

"Hmm."

"Don't care." Peter hooked his ankles around Sylar's thighs. "Fuck me, Sylar."

"Gabriel," snarled Peter.

"Gabriel," moaned Peter, orgasming. Sylar came above him, inside of him, and a few beats later started up again as if nothing had happened, as if they shouldn't both be passed out and depleted.

XXX

XXX

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